


Blight widows

by sgac



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgac/pseuds/sgac
Summary: I took this down a while back and am now reposting with 50% less inventory porn and 50% more armour porn.In theory there's a sequel, but don't hold your breath, I write like a snail.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	Blight widows

I had not planned how to say goodbye to Leliana. In the end she came in as I was packing. “Warden, are you...? Oh, no. Already?”

I kept my eyes on my clean socks, laid out on my bed in piles. “I just can't do this, Leelee.”

I heard her close the door, with a swish of skirts. She'd cast off her armor and enthusiastically consulted with Anora's seamstresses almost before the archdemon's body was cold. “Do you know where you'll go?”

“Weisshaupt.” I folded a shirt, put it down, picked it up and refolded it. It seemed so hard these days to concentrate on ordinary things. I was clumsy and forgetful, and my clothes and hair were a mess whenever Wynne turned her back. I had no idea whether this was normal, which was ridiculous because I'd surely seen enough bereaved women on my travels. Ferelden was overflowing with them.

“Oh! Oh, that's good. We were so afraid...”

“That I meant to abandon everything?” I finally turned around and looked at her. “No. I'm a Grey Warden. I think I'm a Grey Warden even more than I am a mage, now. But... it's a long way, and I'm in no hurry. In a couple of years, I'll turn up on their doorstep and let them assign me as they wish. But Thedas can let me have this time for myself.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I think I would do the same in your place. But you should not be alone. I know I said I must deal with Marjolaine myself, but if you are willing to wait a few days – a week at the most – I can travel with you as far as Orlais. It is not safe to be alone on the road.”

I shook my head. “I'm going tonight. I'll spend the night in the city and leave at dawn. But I won't be alone. Zevran has agreed to travel with me, up to the Anderfels border.”

That was his condition, the only other one being that we not go to Antiva. He was afraid that in Weisshaupt he would be too tempting a target for Grey Warden conscription, and he had no intention of fighting darkspawn for the rest of his life – “And I understand enough of your Joining to know that might be short indeed.”

I should probably be alarmed that he knew Grey Warden secrets. We must have been careless around the campfire. I couldn't bring myself to care.

“It is good that you won't be alone,” Leliana said, and bit her lip. I could see she was relieved she didn't have to wrap up whatever she was doing at court – she and Anora had been working closely together, on politics that I was glad I didn't have to care about. “But are you sure about that?”

“About Zevran? Of course. I consider him a friend. And two elves together will be less conspicuous than a mixed group.”

“I meant that... never mind. But leaving tonight? Can you not wait until morning, and have one last meal in our company?”

“Sten and Oghren eat with the guards anyway, and Sten is leaving himself as soon as he finds a ship. Morrigan's long gone.” I took a breath, and came to the heart of it. “Wynne _fusses_ over me, and it pisses me off when she only means well, and I don't want to hurt her feelings because it's not her fault I can't – I _can't_. I'm sorry, Leelee. But I'll go mad if I stay here a minute longer.”

I had not yet cried in front of anyone. Oh, I'd had tears streaming down my face that night on top of Fort Drakon, but so had everyone. Wynne had dealt with Al— with the body – while I had busied myself draining the archdemon's body of as much blood as possible. Riordan, damn him, had been emphatic about the need for gathering enough archdemon blood to provide a drop for centuries of Joinings, but hadn't provided any hints for how to go about it without starting rumours of Grey Warden blood magic. Maybe there wasn't a manual; maybe the surviving Wardens had to figure it out themselves on the battlefield every time.

In the weeks since, I had wept in bed nearly every night. But I had presented a stone face to the court and to my friends, even when sometimes it seemed Wynne was trying to provoke me into breaking down. I loved Wynne dearly; I would forever be grateful for all her help and advice. But her compassion was killing me.

Leliana had started out as bad, but I had lashed out at her with violent magic the first time she said “Oh, you poor thing!”, and since then she had cultivated a quieter, more practical kind of sympathy. It allowed me to bear her company, even if it never allowed me to forget.

I watched her glance away, giving me a moment’s space. She sighed, and then looked up. “Can I help?”

“Yes.” I unclenched my hands and put down the creased shirt. “I need armor. I'll be hiding my magic and using Spellweaver, so I need some armor that won't stand out. What do you think?”

A little line appeared on her forehead. “The palace armory could easily supply you with a mail shirt and a helmet, maybe greaves and gauntlets. Anything more would be unusual.”

We both looked over at the armor stand in the corner of my room. Sophia Dryden's armor was a high quality full plate harness, engraved with griffons and polished to a soft lustre. With it was the winged helm I had found in Honnleath. In those I was instantly recognisable as the Hero of Ferelden (how I hated that name). Out of them I was just an elf.

An elf in plate was almost unheard of, except for me. It was far too costly. Chain was more believable, but it was poor protection for the style of fighting I had grown used to. “What about the stealth drakescale brigandine? Would that fit me?”

Leliana flashed me a quick smile. “Let's find out.”

When she was gone, I stared back at the armor stand. Alistair had taught me how to wear armor. He and the Drydens had put their heads together and made me an arming jacket. He had drilled me, laughing, on the names of the different pieces. He had taught me how to get in and out of it, how to move in it, and how to clean and care for it. Later, he taught me to use Spellweaver as a sword as well as a staff. He and Zevran had finally become friends as they taught me to cut and parry, in high mountain meadows, in the Deep Roads, and in our campsites along the road between Redcliffe and Denerim. The others had watched, clapping every time I figured out a combination of blade- and spell-work that put one of them on his arse.

I had memories of Alistair in every part of every part of my body that he'd touched and loved. But my armor... that held the light in his eyes when he first saw me dressed in it. On my last day of life, when I would stand in the Deep Roads and fall on my sword to cheat the darkspawn of my womb, I would see that light and know I had been loved.

***

Master Wade had made three sets of light armor for us. The lamellar scale made a show of our drake scales, polishing them to a ruddy shine and setting them in elaborate ornamentation. Zevran had been wearing that set around court. The third, with scales from the Haven high dragon, Leliana had worn to fight the archdemon and would be keeping as her own.

The second was what we called the stealth drakescale. It looked like plain boiled leather. The drake scales, almost as hard as steel, were hidden between the layers of leather. Master Wade had even artfully aged and weathered the outside to make it look old and cheap. With it were some greaves and gauntlets that looked similarly shabby and Leliana donated her old helmet. The result was realistic for an elven fighting woman, but nonetheless entirely fit for taking on an ogre.

By the time we were done Leliana had long since missed dinner, but she didn't seem to have noticed. “You will write to me. I insist on it. I will give you an address in Val Royaux and they will send letters on to me no matter where I am. And if you are with Zevran, he will be able to set up mail drops so I can reach you. You must not, must not simply disappear, or I will hunt you down myself.”

“I'll write,” I promised, and I meant it. “Will you give this letter to Anora, please, and this one to Wynne? And this is for any Grey Wardens who come here looking for me. You can read the one for Anora, but not the others.” She would probably try to read all three of them anyway. Leliana was not the person Marjolaine thought she was, but you still couldn't give her a sealed letter and expect her to resist it. The one for the Grey Wardens was sealed magically, attuned to the taint in our blood, so she would have no luck there.

I had already found a Dryden and sent her to Soldier's Peak with a letter for Avernus. He would not need telling that the archdemon was dead, but I was sending him a vial of its blood for his research and a warning that he should soon expect more Wardens at his door. I strongly felt that the best place for Avernus was _under supervision_. 

I had no other outstanding business. I was not beholden to the Circle; I would say goodbye to Shale on my way out of the palace; I was not close to Oghren; Sten and I had said our farewells. Alistair’s effects, such as they were, had largely been sent to Teagan, who had been good to him. His oathing pendant had been left for the Wardens; his mother’s locket hung around my neck. His sister had been bought off and sent to Redcliffe.

Anora was planning to turn him into a hero. Oh, I had a certain status now, but soon they would all be just as glad to forget about an elven mage. The last of Calenhad’s line, valiantly saving Ferelden by slaying an archdemon – it was just made for songs. Alistair would be beloved by Ferelden’s people, and Anora would be keen to remind them he had endorsed her leadership. 

She had asked me a question earlier, as delicately as she could, and I had answered her: female Grey Wardens almost never conceive, and I had taken precautions against even that remote chance. Nor could any other woman make a claim, for it had been well known that I was his first and only. As a favor to her, I would let myself be seen and known in, oh, say Val Royaux, in about six months’ time, in front of irreproachable witnesses, with a flat belly.

I remembered one of the many Blight widows putting her hand to her stomach and saying, “Well, it seems that he’s left me something.” I bitterly regretted every potion I’d swallowed every month. And yes, with every fibre of my body I regretted rejecting Morrigan’s offer. If she had used that argument – a child with Alistair’s eyes, a child I was unlikely to ever give him – and had been willing to countenance visits, even letters, then matters might have gone very differently. But she had not, and I had arrogantly supposed that I could control events, that I could plan my own death before his.

How very wrong I’d been. 

I hugged Leliana. She cried; I did not. I picked up my pack. I walked out of the palace, to join all the other widows on the road.

**Author's Note:**

> I took this down a while back and am now reposting with 50% less inventory porn and 50% more armour porn.
> 
> In theory there's a sequel, but don't hold your breath, I write like a snail.


End file.
